The Scars Of Trust
by Fyrie
Summary: Witnessing Neville Longbottom's distress when he teaches the Gryffindor 4th years the Unforgivable Curses, Mad-Eye Moody takes the boy aside to talk to him, giving the man who destroyed Neville's family has the chance to see what became of the boy.


Performing the unforgivable curses in a class was a risky business. 

It could have been the key to my unmasking but it was essential to make them scared of what they would be facing, should they meet a dark wizard. And scared they should be, if my Master's plan comes to fruition. 

I know that many of them were probably derisive. How could such simple words cause so much trouble? That's what I used to wonder. How could it affect me? What was the fuss about?

After all, unless you have seen the results of the curses, you are always able to be glib about them. Of course they would never affect _me_. That's what everyone thinks, until faced with the curses. 

People think that the curses unimportant, irrelevant, nightmarish things that will never affect them. 

It was definitely what I thought until I witnessed them in action with my own eyes, was lanced with the pain of cruciatus for disobedience, then felt the power that those curses placed in my hands.

Once you understand what is coming when those words are directed at you and what it will do to you, it makes your fear so much more palpable, a sensation that becomes familiar with every whispered spell.

Now, I know that the children in the school are guaranteed to be terrified instantly when they know that my Dark Master has returned. They will immediately fear that any one of those curses will be placed on them and I feel a secret thrill to know I will be one of those placing the curses.

They are... astounding.

They distil a power in you, which is rare.

Most spells mean you expel energy, but the unforgivable curses return your expelled power in the form of a strangely pleasurable and devilishly intoxicating surge, the strength drawn from your victims spreading through you like delicious heat.

Today's class...

Salazar's Bones...

It has been far too long, since I have felt that familiar pleasure.

For three such small victims to create such a ripple...

By Merlin, it was delicious.

Now, though, I must play the role of a teacher, although I do have a divided purpose.

It's a small wonder the boy is reacting the way he is. 

I have to admit that I was curious about him.

Neville Longbottom.

He has no clue what a precarious position he's in, as he nervously sits down to face me, across the expanse of my cluttered desk. Mind you, along with every other fool in this school, he honestly believes that I am Mad Eye Moody.

What would he do, I wonder, if he knew that I was the one that put his parents where they are today? What would his parents have done, had they known I would one day be so close to their precious one?

Either option would probably have proved incredibly painful for me, but he doesn't know and they never will, so I can take my time and let my borrowed features terrify him for a while, before playing the role of gentle teacher.

It's strangely amusing, knowing that I - the one who destroyed his parents - am the one to comfort him when he's faced with the reality of what they must have suffered on that night.

Ironic, really.

Shifting in the seat, he looks both terrified and bewildered, his brown eyes always perpetually round in a face that is equally round, so very like his mother's was, even as we directed the wand at her.

The eyes, though, are his father's, soft brown, like chocolate.

I knew them both, you see.

Particularly his father. 

Frank Longbottom.

He had been older than I had at school, but we knew each other to greet each other in the halls. A good man, he was. A decent man. And a trusting man, which was the thing that caused his downfall.

That is one of the reasons I have to see his son, to see if the boy is the same meek and useless fool that his father was, so... sickeningly true to the path of simple-minded goodness, uncaring of the power that could be his.

My father was a mind-shaping influence in my life, even though I could hardly have picked him out on sight from a line-up of wizards. He was so caught up in his desire to dominate and control everything that we barely saw him.

He wanted power.

When I came of age, I understood that.

Who wouldn't want power?

But I saw how the direction he took to find it had been all wrong. He had ended up slaving and labouring for a power that was already there, that simply needed to be tapped into by those who knew how.

If you are meant to be powerful, the power will give itself to you.

That is what my Dark Master taught us.

He had embraced the powers that had eagerly offered themselves up to him, taking what abilities he was gifted with and raising them beyond all expectation. He never refused it's seductive and empowering touch.

We offered it to this boy's father, in exchange for our Dark Master. 

After all, he was meant to know and we believed, foolishly, that he would tell us. 

How were we to know that he was so devoted to that unfathomable and fickle thing. goodness, and had no dreams or will to reach out and take the power that was laid bare before him?

He was a weak, brain-washed fool, trapped in the belief that there was always good in everyone, that we would not harm him, that surely - our good natures - would spare him and his wife.

He didn't understand that without our leader, we are nothing.

Our Master taught us how to find our power and he...

It was his name that made us stronger, feared, made the power worth having.

When Longbottom refused to tell us, what could we do, but try and persuade them otherwise? It was civilised at first, but he was resolute, as was his wife. 

So we used her first.

The screams do take some getting used to, when you first use the curse on another.

By the time we reached the Longbottoms, we were hardened to them and when she screamed, we didn't care. How she screamed, her husband, begging and pleading with us to stop, to curse him, to leave her alone.

Of course we would have, if he had told us what we wanted to know.

He didn't.

So she kept screaming until her throat was raw, her eyes rolled up in her head and her spasming body went limp on the nice green carpet they had on the living room floor, blood running from eyes, nose and ears.

Even then, he didn't tell us.

So we tried to persuade him again.

Had the child been available, we would have utilised him first, loving parents so easy to manipulate but he was absent, apparently safely stowed in his grandmother's home, while his parents had been sharing a romantic Valentine's evening together.

It's a pity they won't remember a thing of their most memorable Valentine's Day.

The first screams, however, that had rung out before we had the chance to cast a silencing spell, had the unfortunate side-effect of drawing attention. 

It was sheer bad luck that the Longbottoms lived in a wizarding area, otherwise we would simply have had to deal with muggle pleese-men. We would have left and found someone else to aid us, if we had only had muggles to deal with.

How I wish it had been muggles that night. 

It would have made matters so much easier.

Ministry Aurors apparated into the house, catching us off-guard and surrounding when Lestrange had his wand drawn on Longbottom, who was already - along with his wife - past salvation.

Thus, we were captured.

I had often wondered, in Azkaban, in my few moments of lucidity, what would become of the boy. We had left him, a child of only a few years, with barely a husk of his parents. Their physical features remained, but his parents...

They were no more.

How, I had thought, would a four-year-old child react if he reached out to the one who had loved and embraced him for so long, calling 'mama' and his mother simply sat, staring and drooling, acting like more of a child than he did?

I knew I should have felt guilty.

I had been fortunate to have one loving parent and I had left this child with nothing, but I could not bring myself to care. His parents had been obstacles and had they been helpful, they would have still been there for their son.

It was their fault.

We only wanted to know one thing, one small thing.

It was their petty love of that demon, goodness, that turned them into what they now are. Had they joined us, they would have been alive, to see there son for what he is now, but they refused our offer. 

Looking at the boy now, I can see that he is father's son, so like him in appearance.

And yet, he shows his fear, while his father would strive to hide it.

Someone once told me that it is in admitting that you are afraid that you take your first step to defeating the fear. My mother, I think, deluded and gentle fool that she was. Personally, I think it's nonsense and that fear is a waste of emotion.

How are you to become something if you have a fatal flaw in the shape of fear?

Mind you, I do believe that the boy in front of me is one of the few in the class who did actually have good reason to genuinely fear the curses before I performed them on the spiders.

He more than knows what the cruciatus curse is capable of.

"Are you afraid of me, boy?" I ask, my voice that gravely-growl of the scar-faced son of a bitch whose form I wear.

His chin lifts slightly, fear lacing his expression and I see his lip tremble a little, but he replies, "Should I be, sir?" 

A-ha.

Suspicious and cautious.

He might not be the brightest in the world, this boy, but I have a feeling he knows that anyone could be your enemy. He's probably had a few knocks from time to time, because he isn't the brightest or best-looking.

That's always the thing that makes you wary, being picked on.

His father was never picked on, mainly because he was just smart enough to avoid being noticed by the bullies who picked on the less than bright and overly-bright students and was plain enough in appearance to avoid their attentions.

This boy, though, has the bad luck of being cursed with chubbiness of his mother as well as the less than impressive school record he bears to date.

He's probably familiar with being bullied by richer or smarter families, taunted and teased by those who think him below them, treated like he is worth nothing as I was treated by my father.

Only, he does not have a mother like mine to reassure him that everything will work out and I doubt that his grandmother and the rest of his family will be sympathetic to his meagre powers.

He will never feel good enough for anyone, this I know. He will feel he is always being judged and that everyone will be trying to do him some harm or must be using him for some deeper purpose, even those he calls his 'friends'.

Interesting...

This boy will have the innate suspicion of people that could have been the thing to save his father's life so many years ago. 

Ironic that he would not have become so, had his parents been present in his life. If we had not sought them out that night, the boy before me would not have earned the nervous suspicion that may be the thing that saves his life in the future. 

I may have to keep my eye on this one.

He is... interesting.

But, for now, he needs the reassurance that classmates cannot give. They didn't know about his parents, judging by their expressions outside the class. They have no idea what happened to the boy's family.

A sure sign of the careful trust he seldom discloses.

Definitely interesting...

Yes, he is fearful, but I'm sure he's probably filled with emotions that are far more... I suppose useful would be a good word for them. Emotions like anger, jealousy, hate, bitterness, resentment.

No doubt, they're festering beneath the bland surface of insipid fear that serves as his passive mask.

Perhaps, if I can earn his trust...

It will be difficult, but may prove oddly useful. 

After all, the Dark Lord appreciates the powerful, but he also appreciates those who have their uses, especially ones who bear the face of someone that his chosen victims believe to be a gentle and simple ally.

Frank Longbottom opened his door to a one-time friend.

I'm sure that in the near future, given a little time and effort on my part, the friendly face that greets people when they answer their doors will be that of the boy sitting in front of me, with a genial smile, a convincingly well-mannered behaviour and a curse on the tip of his tongue.

If I play my cards right, this boy could be just like me.


End file.
